(F&F4) A Cup of Kindness
by Harper64
Summary: Foyle Fluff for the New Year! Set eight months after Buried Secrets. Sam can't go forward and she can't go backward, which causes difficulties for Foyle and Frances.
1. Chapter 1

I was going to leave this until the correct date, but it's raining and the new FW doesn't begin until tomorrow so...

Enjoy this bit of silly imagining, and please review. As DCS Foyle would say, "Can't go on without you.".

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**A Cup of Kindness**

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_'__We'll take a cup of kindness yet, For auld lang syne'_

_Poem by Robert Burns, traditionally sung at midnight on New Year's Eve._

**Monday January 5****th**** 1942**

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It seemed that the rain would never stop. There had been heavy rain for at least a week, making the snow that had fallen in the previous weeks melt; the Hastings pavements were puddled and the garden sodden. Frances was tired of having to try to dry washing in an increasingly damp house. At least her husband, Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle, had the use of a car so wasn't completely drenched by his journey to and from work.

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She sat at the dining table and let her thoughts drift back over the previous months; just sixteen months after their wedding day and so many things had happened since then. The first few months had passed in a haze as she and Christopher got to know so much more about each other than they had learned in their four week courtship. Then it was preparations for Christmas in wartime, and all the creative solutions that had entailed. In March he had taken her with him to Hertfordshire on a case and, upon coming home, he'd taken a few days leave allowing them a late 'home honeymoon'. She had never been happier than that week, walking the cliff paths and exploring the town together, even though the weather had been cold. They'd taken the bus to Rye Harbour, over a mile now from the actual town, and picnicked on the beach wrapped up in heavy coats; it had been heavenly. Then, in early April, they'd had the news of further bombing raids in Coventry, resulting in her sister-in law coming to stay, along with her three children, when their house had been destroyed. A childish game had turned into something more serious and Frances had ended up in hospital. But the most incredible thing that had happened was that she was now carrying Christopher's child, after having been told that such a thing was virtually impossible. What an amazing year it had been; and in just a few more weeks she would have their baby in her arms.

If only the rain would stop!

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oooooOOOOOooooo

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**Tuesday 6****th**** January 1942**

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Christopher Foyle heard his wife get out of bed, open the curtains and sigh heavily.

"Problem, love?" he asked.

"It's _still_ raining," she answered, "When will it ever stop? I know it's winter, but for heaven's sake!"

He turned on the low bedside lamp, lay in the warm bed and watched her move around the room, her swollen belly under her extra- large cotton nightdress reminding him of a ship under sail. He smiled to himself as he remembered the day they had discovered that she was expecting. They'd had a particularly rocky patch in their short marriage last June, mostly due to Frances' lack of self-esteem. The problem was that she put on such a good show of being confident and independent that sometimes he forgot just how insecure she was about some things. An unhappy event had led to her feeling that she could not confide in him, and their relationship had been sorely tested. Fortunately they had reconciled before things had gone too far. She had suspected that she was pregnant then, but it was two weeks later before they knew for sure. He'd taken a rare day off to accompany her to the hospital where their own doctor had referred her. Mr Poynton, the obstetrician, had spoken to them.

"Mrs Foyle, how nice to see you again," he'd said, "And in much better circumstances, I'm glad to say. The test has come back positive. Congratulations."

He had shaken Foyle's hand but Frances had been ready with a question.

"Last time it was positive, too," she'd said, "but …" She'd still found it painful to speak about.

"Yes, and I must warn you that there is still that possibility this time," he'd told her, and Fran had squeezed Christopher's hand tightly, "which is why your GP has referred you here. We'll do everything we can to make sure you carry this baby to full term."

"How will Frances', um, previous injuries affect this?" Christopher had asked.

"Difficult to say," had been Poynton's answer, "it's not easy to assess exactly what they were but the very fact that your wife is pregnant again is a good sign." He'd looked at Frances and continued, "The other factor to take into consideration, Mrs Foyle, is your age."

"Why?" Frances had asked defensively, "Women have babies in their forties all the time."

"Ah, yes, true," he'd replied, "but they tend to have had several previous children. Which is why we'd like you to have the baby in hospital, not at home."

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Christopher had been thrilled with the news, but even then Fran had been uneasy.

"We've never talked about this," she'd said as they'd walked home, "because we never thought it would happen. I don't know how you really feel about it; whether you even want a child at this stage of your life. After all, Andrew's twenty-three, that's a huge gap."

She'd looked at him apprehensively, "And last time you said you didn't _need_ a child."

'_Oh God, she takes everything and hears the worst in it_,' he'd thought, realising that that was exactly what he had said, '_Fran, you are hard work sometimes, my love!"_

"Believe I also said that you were all I wanted," he'd reminded her, "doesn't mean I wouldn't welcome a child. I'm over the moon about this."

He'd been astounded at how she could even consider that he wasn't overjoyed about it until he considered her past; how her first husband had hated the idea of a child and …. He still felt his stomach clench at the thought of that man and the things he had done. He had shown Fran, in every way he knew how, that he loved and cherished her, but her insecurities still showed now and again. But he didn't mind; he was content to demonstrate just how happy he was and watch her blossom in his love and happiness.

Fran had expressed disappointment about having the baby in hospital. "I want our child to be born in our home," she'd said, "Do you think we can persuade Mr Poynton?"

Christopher had not been so sure, "If it means it's safer for you and the little one you should do as he says, Fran."

She'd not been convinced and had spent a lot of time reading the latest research on childbirth in the months since then. Her pregnancy had been uneventful, surprising everyone except Fran who assured him it was because she felt prepared by her reading. She had revelled in her changing body and in his appreciation of it. They had had fun finding positions that allowed intimacy despite her growing belly. The only thing she had complained about was that she was now virtually confined to the house, as the weather and her swollen ankles made getting out and about difficult. He knew that she was desperate to see something other than the inside of the house.

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After lunch Foyle was called out to a nearby village, where a pub landlord had reported a theft. He was getting into the car with his driver, Sam, when a thought struck him.

"Sam," he said, "this shouldn't take very long at all. Would you very much mind if we took Frances with us. She'd appreciate getting out of the house, I know. She's bored with being cooped up."

"I don't mind in the least," Sam had replied, "and I'll have someone to talk to while I'm waiting for you."

This was a familiar complaint of Sam's; she hated being left in the car when she could be finding out what had happened. More and more he let her accompany him when circumstances allowed and she'd proved her usefulness time and time again.

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They took a short detour to Steep Lane and were soon on their way with Frances happily ensconced in the back seat. As they left the town it soon became clear that the near constant rain, along with the melted snow, had caused considerable flooding in the narrow lanes. Sam drove carefully through huge puddles that stretched across the roads. However, they reached their destination with no problems and Foyle conducted his interview with the landlord. It was close to four o'clock as they made their way back. The rain was still lashing down; the windscreen wipers only just managing to cope with the downpour. They came to a flood across the road that they had driven through on the way out; with the run-off from the fields it had now increased in size. Sam got out and considered it carefully.

"I'm not happy about going through this, sir," she told Foyle, "I'm worried we'll pull water into the engine and then we'll be well and truly stuck. I'm going to reverse up here and try the other road out of the village."

"If you think that's best, Sam," he answered. Looking round at Frances, he saw that she looked pale, "You alright there, love?" he asked.

"I'm fine," she answered, "Just a bit of backache, that's all, nothing new there."

Sam put the car in reverse and started back up the lane. They had not gone far when a lorry, a load of timber tied down on the back, came round the corner towards them. It was going far too fast for the wet conditions; the driver slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop a few feet behind their now stationary car. One front wheel embedded itself firmly in an overflowing drainage ditch. Sam and Foyle got out of the car, Foyle to check on the driver, and Sam to assess the possibility of squeezing past the now stranded lorry. The driver was unhurt and after a short conversation he started back the way he had come, on foot.

"I'm very sorry, sir, "said Sam, "It looks like we're stuck here. Can't get through the flood, can't get past the lorry."

Foyle was concerned, not for himself or Sam, they could walk back to the village if necessary, but Frances would never make the four-mile journey in her state. She hadn't even bothered with a proper coat, thinking she would stay in the car. Foyle quickly looked for the lorry driver, hoping to ask him to send help, but he was nowhere in sight and Foyle was loathe to leave Frances.

"D'you think you could catch up with him, Sam?" he asked, "ask him to send someone with a car? I don't want to leave Frances."

"Leave it to me, sir," she replied smartly and set off at a good pace.

It wasn't long, however, before she was back.

"He's not on the road, sir," she explained, "I could see for a good half mile but there's no sign of him. He must have cut off through the fields."

Foyle cursed their bad luck.

"There is a farm just back there, though," said Sam, "down a short track. They may have a telephone."

"Right," said Foyle, "I'll go and see. You alright here, love?" This last question was directed at Frances. She hadn't complained but he thought she looked more uncomfortable than before.

"Of course!" she answered, "Go on."

Foyle picked his way down the wet track, water soaking his trousers up to the knees. As he got closer he could see that the farm was poorly kept, paint peeling and slates missing from the roof. There was, to his great relief, a telephone wire attached, with posts stretching out to the back of the property. He knocked. The door was opened by a woman who must have been eighty or more, her hands clawed with arthritis. Foyle explained his predicament to her and asked to use the telephone.

"Well, you can try," she told him, "but it weren't working this mornin'."

The line was dead.

"It'll be all the snow last week," she explained as if he were a child, "the line'll be down somewhere. Looks like you're stuck, young man."

Introducing himself properly and ascertaining that she was Mrs Gooch and lived alone; he told her about Frances and how she could not manage the walk back to the village. The woman's manner changed.

"Well why're you standin' about here, then? Bring her in," she instructed him, "I'll get the kettle on."

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Half an hour later they were drinking tea around the table in Mrs Gooch's warm kitchen. They'd all been soaked after the somewhat slow walk from the car; Sam reluctant to drive down the deep rutted track in case they should not be able to get the car back on the road. The old woman had produced an assortment of dry clothing and they had all managed to find something that was suitable, even Frances, who was wearing a large linen milking smock. They discussed the options open to them. Sam offered to walk to the village but the weather was still foul and Foyle was worried that, in the darkness, it would be too risky. He was convinced that Frances was feeling much worse than she let on, and was not prepared to leave her, and Mrs Gooch told them that there were no other homes nearby that would be likely to have a telephone. They were, as Mrs Gooch had said, stuck there, at least for the night.

"At least Milner knows where we were making for," he reassured Frances, "when we don't get back this afternoon he'll send out a search party. It'll probably be tomorrow morning though." He said it flippantly but Fran didn't smile. She looked tired and drawn.

"I think I'll go and lie down, if that alright," she asked Mrs Gooch. The old lady directed them to rooms upstairs, explaining that she could no longer manage the steep stairs, and had her bed in 'the front parlour'.

Christopher helped Frances up to the room, found the bed damp and in need of an airing. He left her lying on the eiderdown covered by his coat, while he took the sheets and blankets down to air by the kitchen range.

"When's she due then?" Mrs Gooch asked him as he draped the bed linen over a wooden clotheshorse.

"Few weeks yet," answered Christopher, "end of January, beginning of February."

"Really?" Mrs Gooch sounded sceptical.

Sam, under Mrs Gooch's direction, managed a reasonable evening meal for them all, although Frances ate very little and Christopher worried even more.

They turned in early, taking oil lamps to find their way up to their chilly rooms.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wednesday 7****th**** January 1942**

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It took a while for them to get to sleep in the cold and uncomfortable bed, but eventually exhaustion took over. It was not quite light when Foyle awoke, was surprised to see his watch telling him it was nearly nine. Fran was not in the bed beside him, but knowing how often she needed to spend a penny just lately he surmised that was where she was. He waited several minutes, until his own need to relieve himself became uncomfortable. Pulling on the threadbare dressing gown he'd been given the previous night, he opened the curtains and looked out onto a landscape covered in water. A few patches of slightly higher ground showed through the sea-like fields, each with a few sheep crowded onto them. The car, just visible at the end of the track, was up to the hubcap tops in water; the stranded lorry still there. At least the rain had stopped for the time being, although grey clouds still filled the sky.

'Sam'll have a fit when she sees that,' he thought, 'looks like we're here for the duration. Bugger!'

He made his way down the stairs and out through the back door to the outside privy. Fran was not there. His own needs attended to, he went back inside and opened the kitchen door; a bizarre sight met his eyes.

Sam, dressed in a dry but crumpled uniform, with trousers underneath, was mopping the tiled floor, Mrs Gooch, fully clothed was at the sink and Frances was in an armchair by the range, where a kettle, sounding close to boiling, sat. She was wrapped in a faded tartan blanket. Everyone froze and stared at him; no-one said a word.

Uncomfortable under the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes, Foyle cleared his throat.

"Um, very sorry," he said, "I didn't realise I'd slept so late."

"Well, that's me finished," said Sam suddenly, "I'll be off now."

Foyle wondered what was going on. She patently hadn't finished the kitchen floor, only a small patch glistened with damp marks from the mop. And where on earth was she off to?

"I'll get you those waders," replied Mrs Gooch, ushering Sam into the scullery.

"Off where?" called Foyle at her disappearing back, "You can't go out in this, Sam. You'll be up to your neck in no time."

"Good job I can swim then, isn't it?" Sam replied pertly, returning in an antiquated pair of fishing boots over the trousers. They reached up well under her skirt. "See you later." She smiled at Frances.

"Where exactly is she going?" Foyle asked, watching her wade down the track carefully, two walking sticks steadying her. She was well wrapped up in an old coat and scarf.

"To the village," answered Mrs Gooch succinctly, "she's a good girl, that one."

Foyle walked over to Frances, put his hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. Her hand reached up and held his.

"How are you today, love?" he said softly, "Back still hurting?"

Fran's answer was a tight squeeze of his hand; very tight. He saw her body tense, the ripple of her abdomen even through the blanket. His heart lurched.

"I'm fine, Christopher," she said after a moment, "but this little one thinks it's time to make an appearance." She rubbed her swollen body.

"No, love, you've weeks yet," he said unsteadily, "it'll be a false alarm. Happens all the time."

Mrs Gooch laughed. "Babies have a way of making their own timetables, young man" she said, adding, "Rather like the buses round this way."

Fran smiled at that; Christopher's hackles rose at being addressed as 'young man' yet again, but he had other things to worry about now.

"Christopher, my waters have broken," Fran told him, "that's what Sam was clearing up, bless her. It's not a false alarm; it's happening, now."

Christopher closed his eyes; saw Rosalind pale and shaking, heard her screams… he shook his head to dispel the image.

"No," he sat down heavily, "Fran, no, you need medical help…"

Mrs Gooch came over to him, held his arm in an almost vice-like grip and hissed at him, "Come with me, young man."

She took him into the 'front parlour'.

"We all know," she told him firmly, "that there's no help unless Samantha gets through to the village. Even if she does, it's going to be a while before help arrives. Right now your wife is calm; you need to make sure she stays that way."

She sat him in a chair.

"Now I know you're worried sick, but that's not going to do her any favours, is it now? I've had seven of me own and delivered most of me grandchildren so I know what I'm talking about."

Christopher looked at her, trying to imagine her as a young woman.

"We'll manage, don't you fear," she patted his arm, "now, no more talk of help. Calm, remember?"

He nodded, his mind the furthest from calm it had ever been. He thought back to the day Milner had told him Fran was in hospital and he'd thought that he'd lost her. This was worse. This was his fault; he was the one who'd suggested Fran should accompany them. If anything happened to her, he'd be the one to blame.

Mrs Gooch stood in the doorway, "Come on then."

He could not get Rosalind out of his head.

_'__Get a hold of yourself, man,'_ he thought, _'This isn't Rosalind, seventeen years of age and as delicate as a china rose. This is Fran, stronger physically and emotionally now, mature, and not completely inexperienced in what to expect.'_

He pulled himself up to his full height. "Right," he said in a brisk voice, "what can I do?"

"You can make the tea, if you please," said Mrs Gooch with an approving look.

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It was surreal, Foyle decided, dressed in his own dry clothes now, sitting in the warm kitchen drinking tea when they should be on their way to the hospital in Hastings. But there was no way that Fran was going anywhere; he seriously doubted that Sam would get through to the village, never mind return with the doctor. Mrs Gooch had told him how she'd insisted on going, expressing the opinion that Sam was more than a little scared by what was happening.

"She acts all grown up," Mrs Gooch had said, "but she's still an innocent, I can tell."

Knowing that Sam was involved with his own son, Andrew, who was not quite so innocent, he rather hoped she was right. The hours dragged by. To Christopher, Fran seemed unchanged, other than that the contractions were getting closer together and stronger, and although she voiced her pain in somewhat unladylike language, there had thankfully been no screaming. For a man accustomed to being in charge he felt useless. He could not go for help himself and leave Fran in this state – he would never forgive himself if something happened and he was not there. The best he could hope for was to be at her side, whatever happened. He closed his mind to the worst case scenario.

Mrs Gooch had braved the floods to take some feed to the sheep, but returned unsuccessful. She'd made lunch, although Christopher was too anxious to eat and Fran refused anything. She then sat by the range knitting, her hands holding the needles awkwardly. Fran, meanwhile, had taken to walking round the room, saying that it was more comfortable than sitting down. Remembering how Rosalind had been confined to bed, Christopher worried that she was exerting herself unnecessarily but Mrs Gooch had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he should let Fran do what she felt was right. He paced, while Fran shuffled, the soft clicking of Mrs Gooch's knitting needles a backdrop to the scene.

Late afternoon Mrs Gooch eyed Fran up and down and disappeared, returning with pillows, towels and blankets, old but clean, and a large tarpaulin which she put by the warm range.

Fran stopped shuffling and grabbed Christopher's hand. "I'm sorry, love, but I really need to use the lavatory. Could you help me get there?"

Mrs Gooch looked up. "You sure?" she asked Fran, "or do you feel like you need to push?"

Another contraction gripped Frances and she realised that that was exactly what she needed to do. She nodded.

"Right, young man," she instructed Christopher, "spread this tarpaulin here." She indicated the rug-covered floor between the two easy chairs." Now put these over the top," she continued, handing him several blankets.

"Here?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Unless you think a freezing bedroom would be better?" Mrs Gooch glared at him. He did as he was told.

"Right, my dear," she addressed Frances now, "lying, kneeling, squatting? What d'you think? Whatever feels best for you."

Frances eased herself down to kneel in front of one of the chairs, arms resting on the seat.

"Christopher," she said softly, "You'll have to take my things off. Sorry."

Suddenly all his fears and embarrassment disappeared; his wife needed his help and he would do whatever was necessary.

"Don't know why you're apologising," he said, his mouth quirked in a smile, "you never have before."

He removed her clothing, leaving her just the smock and blanket to preserve whatever modesty she had left. She was really straining now, the effort showing on her face. Mrs Gooch put string and scissors on the other chair, making Christopher have the peculiar thought that she was going to wrap the baby like a parcel.

_'__It must be nervous exhaustion,'_ he thought, _'or lack of food.'_

She then bent slightly and raised the blanket. To Christopher's absolute astonishment he could see the top of the baby's head, strands of wet hair clinging to it.

"Well, young man," she said, "If you think I can get down there to help, you're sadly mistaken. Here," she handed him another towel, warm from the range, "for God's sake don't drop it!"

Fran did scream then, one long loud cry as the baby, their baby, head released, slid into his waiting hands. He stared at the tiny creature that he held, amazed. Little arms waved and it opened its eyes, blinking in the light. He had expected blood, but there was very little, just a white waxy substance covering pink skin.

"Don't let her get cold," Mrs Gooch was speaking to him. "Give her to her mum and cover her up."

He looked up to see that Fran had turned round, was sitting propped up against the chair with pillows, covered with a clean blanket. When had that happened? He handed the warm little body to her; she placed it between her breasts, and covered it with the towel. He could not take his eyes off it… _off her_. Mrs Gooch was tying the cord with string and cutting his daughter free from her mother… _his daughter._

Fran looked at the tiny form nestled on her front, mouthed pursed as if disapproving of what had happened, eyes blinking.

"Hello, little one," she murmured, "Welcome."

She looked up at her beloved Christopher, now kneeling beside her. There were tears streaming down his cheeks; a look of wonder and awe on his face. She reached up and stroked his soft curls, "Thank you, my love. For everything."

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It was two hours later when Sam arrived, a young doctor with her, both amazingly dry, having come back from the village by torchlight, and accompanied by a couple of men with a dinghy. They found Frances sitting by the range, nursing the baby, Christopher in the other chair, gazing at them both. Mrs Gooch, after doing a few necessary things that Christopher preferred not to think about, had gone to bed. He made tea for them all as the doctor checked mum and baby, declaring the baby to be a little small, but them both to be absolutely fine. When he had gone and the baby was asleep, Sam had shyly asked if she could hold her.

"What are you going to call her?" she asked them, holding the bundle awkwardly.

"No idea," said Christopher, looking at Frances, "have you?"

"No," said Fran, taking her back from Sam, "I thought we'd have ages to think about that."

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That night baby Foyle slept in a drawer taken from the dresser in the room they were using, and padded out with a pillow and more towels. A paraffin heater had been lit to keep the room warm.

"Poor Mrs Gooch will have nothing left at this rate," said Fran, using yet another tea-towel as a nappy. "Except plenty of washing!"

**Thursday 8****th**** January 1942**

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The next morning the sun shone, making the floodwaters glisten and twinkle in the light.

"It's beautiful, in a way," said Fran, "but I wish it would go. I want to go home." She was rocking the baby in her arms after feeding her yet again.

"Oh, I quite forgot," said Sam, "when I was in the village there were a couple of telephones working. Their lines must go in a different direction, I suppose... Anyway, I telephoned Milner and told him what was happening. He's going to organise something to rescue us!"

"Shame," said Mrs Gooch, "I quite enjoyed the excitement of it all. And you, young man, were my first-footer; my first visitor since last year."

"Ooh," cried Sam, "and we didn't sing 'Auld Lang Syne' with you. What a shame!"

"But we'll always be incredibly grateful for your help," Christopher told her, "You certainly provided us with a cup of kindness…"

"Mrs Gooch," interrupted Frances, "what's your name? Your first name, I mean?"

"It's Lucy," said the old lady, "although there's nobody left that calls me that now."

"Lucy," repeated Frances, looking at her husband, then at their daughter "What do you think, love?"

Christopher looked at his daughter, still unable to believe how she had arrived.

"Think it suits her," he said, stroking her tiny face with his little finger, smiling as she turned her mouth towards the contact, "Lucy _Frances_ Foyle. Think it suits her very well indeed."

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Again, many thanks to those who have posted reviews or messaged me. It means a lot to know you're reading and, hopefully, enjoying.


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